


After Sunset

by Faironiangirl



Category: Origin of Olympus RP
Genre: Gen, other gods mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:13:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26202469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Faironiangirl/pseuds/Faironiangirl
Summary: Apollo found out about Aphrodite's plan far too late to stop her, but that doesn't mean he is going to give up on his son.
Kudos: 2





	After Sunset

**Author's Note:**

> When I first found out what Aphrodite had done, my first thought was that Apollo would not let this stand. He went against his father and king for the sake of one of his sons before, so why would he stand by now?  
> So this is what I imagine happening "behind the scenes" as camp drama is going down.

The sun chariot dipped below the horizon to crest the top of Mount Olympus, landing on the rooftop in a rush of heat and light. Apollo, in contrast, disembarked slowly, waving to Ra and wishing him an uneventful flight as his Egyptian counterpart took his turn in the sky, before he turned to the figure waiting by the door.

Helios offered no words, only a slight nod as the God of the Sun and so much more handed him the symbolic reigns. All arguments against his plan had been repeated and answered in as much detail as Apollo was willing to go into, and Helios had to know how much hadn’t been said.

His wing of the great palace atop Olympus was always filled with light and music. Even now, as the rest of the pantheon drifted into a hazy twilight there was laughter. He stopped a moment to watch Terpsichore dancing with Thalia as the other Muses and Graces sang or watched, giggling, on padded lounges. Any other “night” he would join them, perhaps he would sweep Calliope from her regal seat to dance, and entice a smile or laughter from the most haughty of the muses. Tonight, however, he would not tarry, and he felt no desire to dance anyway. Instead he kept walking and wondered if his son-by-proxy had found anyone to dance with this year.

His own room was strewn with parchments and instruments he always promised himself, and his sister, that he would put away properly, but they never stayed put away for long. Lately he had been even more disorganized than usual, but he thought it could be forgiven considering what he had discovered. The only surfaces not obscured by music and poetry, or chemical formulas were the bed and the stand beside it. He stood before the end table and took a deep breath. On the table was a picture, over a year old now, of two boys, brothers. They were smiling and so different, yet so similar in how earnestly they wore their joy. He held back the tears and cursed his poet’s soul even as he soaked in the bitter nostalgia and grating dread. Or was it despair that sought a foothold in his heart? He pondered on the thought as he picked out a satchel and began filling it with the necessities, distracting from the rage he had so carefully banked flaring again in his soul. A change of clothes, spare strings for his harp, and his notebooks. They were full of the poems and songs that had filled his head as he’d bled his pain, anger, and betrayal into paper to make it more real, to prove he had not, would not forget. The picture was the last and a part of him hesitated to bring it, but the warrior who hurt wanted every advantage available, and the father who mourned needed the fuel for his anger.

He dressed quickly and carelessly. No jewels here, no silver or gold cords and silk capes. He was going to see the god of wealth, among other things, and such posturing would be less than pointless regardless. He would come before the lord of death as he was and nothing more. Just a father, tattered and worn, with grief his only adornment. He pocketed a pair of coins, just in case, and gripped his harp close. His flute was stowed in the pack, and his lyre was tied to his waist. He knew better than to come to battle with only one weapon.

The stage was set and he would step up to play the part as he had once before. As his elder son, long gone, had performed more times than he likely knew. He knew the chances were slim for a happy ending. Once death claims a soul they are wroth to give it back. But he had to try.

Too late had he known her scheming, too late had he known his uncle’s ploy and now his son and his brother-by-choice suffered through no fault of their own. It was not right, and Apollo may be called a dreamer by the others, who saw their cynicism as a shield against the world, but he still believed in righting wrongs and defending one’s family. and if Aphrodite wanted to tear this family apart she would be drawing first blood in a war she did not realize she had begun. And if Hades thought he would just roll over and watch this debacle unfold, he had best be prepared for the consequences.

Regardless of his father's decree (hypocritical as it was) this was not technically tampering with the mortal plane. His elder son had charmed Death into bending before. He had all the time in the world to do the same, and reunite the brothers that should never have been separated.

**Author's Note:**

> This was first written while I was under the (false) impression that Xylo was officially Apollo's foster son. It has been edited to reflect the actual canon, but you may notice the echoes of the original idea. This is what I get for trusting my brother's memory of the first season.  
> But I will cling to the idea that Apollo will support his son's decision to claim Xylo as a brother, and therefore close family.


End file.
